“Didn’t that salty old man of yours teach you anything about tropical cyclones? No? I will. Those”—Will motioned at the swells—“and the fall in the barometer are my little birds. Could be a hurricane, maybe not, but I damn well don’t want to be out here when we find out. The Practical Navigator—you’d do well to read it, Natters—calculates that a cyclone tracks at between ten and twenty knots, and the swells advancing out away from its center travel at between twenty-five and thirty-five. Judging from the size of these, I’d guess that blow is three hundred miles from us. If it is heading our way, we’ve got around thirty hours to get out of its way. Savannah is closest.”

The display of seamanlike knowledge inflamed Nathaniel’s irritability: His friend was making him look stupid! Nevertheless, he hesitated.

“Are you captain now? All right, Captain Terhune, how far is Jacksonville? At least, that’s south and not west.”

“Didn’t plot it, but …”

“Then it’s Jacksonville. I aim to get to Florida. Make it south by half-west, Eliot.”

Though Eliot’s inclination was to side with Will in this case, he repeated the second course change and ported the helm. Feeling that his command of the vessel had been restored, Nathaniel ran to the pinrack to trim the sails. Will took advantage of his momentary absence, shoved Eliot aside, and seized the helm.

“Ease those sheets, Natters! We’re bearing off hard to starboard,” he called, and turned Double Eagle again to westward.

“You’re getting another busted lip!”

Leaving sheets to fly, Nathaniel hurried aft, feeling murderous. He grabbed Will’s hands to pry his fingers from the wheel. That failing, he took half a step backward to punch him, but the boat rolled heavily, making him miss. Thrown sideways by a swell at the same time, he latched onto Will’s sleeve, pulling him down on top of him. Drew, awakened by the rumpus, thrust his head out of the main cabin hatch to be presented with an odd sight: Will and his brother wrestling on deck and no one at the helm. It was holding steady, as if in the hands of some invisible pilot, but he knew that situation couldn’t last, rushed out, took the wheel, and called, “What’s the course!” Forward, belaying the loose sheets, Eliot shouted back, “West by quarter north! We’re running for Savannah! Storm coming!”

Nathaniel heard that. His whole damn crew was against him. Though he had Will pinned, he felt the fight and anger go out of him, like water from a punctured balloon.

“All right, you win,” he said, getting up.

“Win? Win? Oh, for God’s sake, Natters.”

“Quit using that goddamned nickname. I hate it.”